


Fortunate Son

by darkrosaleen



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Casual Sex, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, M/M, Praise Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/pseuds/darkrosaleen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man stroked callused fingers down Declan's neck. “Don’t get many pretty things like you in a place like this.” His hands were rough and dry, but his touch was gentle. “Your daddy know you’re out here dressed like that?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortunate Son

Declan wound up in Virginia this time, at a derelict truck stop an hour west of DC. The bar was a wood-paneled seventies nightmare with a jukebox that only played country and three different baseball games on six different TVs. Declan claimed a seat in front of the Orioles and ordered a scotch neat.

The bartender didn’t card him, just raised an eyebrow and looked Declan up and down (he’d spent hours getting his clothes on just the right side of trashy—obscenely tight jeans and a white shirt with two extra buttons undone) before turning back to the bar. All three Lynch brothers had received a fake ID and a bottle of Connemara whiskey on their fifteenth birthday. Declan looked old enough that he never needed the ID, and the whiskey sat untouched in the back of his closet. 

He took a burning sip and blinked back tears. _Don’t be a pussy, now,_ he heard in his father’s rough lilt. _I didn’t raise no little girl._

Declan didn’t know what was worse: tearing up from the scotch, tearing up at the thought of his father, or the flutter of shame and desire that twisted through his stomach when he thought about Niall Lynch seeing him here, sipping his drink like a queen and eyeing the man at the other end of the bar.

The man was eyeing him back. There was manual labor written all over him, from the dirt on his jeans to the muscles in his bare arms. He was probably between forty and fifty, sandy gray with a nice amount of stubble. He looked like he could hold his own in a fistfight.

Declan caught the man’s eye and raised his drink. The man looked him over in a way that made Declan shiver, then got up and went into the men’s room. 

Declan’s hands were shaking. He knocked the rest of his drink back, slapped a twenty on the bar, and made his way over to the bathroom.

The older man was waiting for him. He gave a predatory smile and pinned Declan back against the door. Declan was tall and broad shouldered, but with all that bulk pressing him down, he felt small and vulnerable. He flushed with shame and had to look down at the floor.

The man stroked callused fingers down Declan's neck. “Don’t get many pretty things like you in a place like this.” His hands were rough and dry, but his touch was gentle. “Your daddy know you’re out here dressed like that?”

Declan squeezed his eyes shut. “My daddy ain’t around.” Declan didn’t have an accent, except on borrowed words like _bugger_ or _bollocks,_ but it was safer to follow a script. He looked up at the man through his lashes, letting a hungry smile curve over his lips. “That’s why I’m here. Got nobody to put me in my place.”

The man watched Declan for a moment, thumb stroking gently over his pulse. It was hard not to squirm under those steady green eyes, and Declan found himself praying that the man would hit him, grab him, do anything to take him out of his head.

Finally, the man slid one big hand through Declan’s hair and yanked. Declan gasped and rubbed the front of his jeans, only to find his wrist grabbed and twisted up behind his back. 

“Stop it. Only dirty boys touch themselves like that. Are you a dirty boy?”

Declan shook his head, breathing raggedly. Pain was shooting through his shoulder and scalp and he was so hard he couldn’t see straight. “Please, I’m not dirty, I’m a good boy. I’ll be good, I promise.”

The lines were rote at this point. Declan barely noticed anymore whether it came out as _I’m a good boy_ or _I’m a naughty boy_ or something incoherent between the two. 

What he did notice was the pang of need that shot through him when the man leaned back to look in his eyes. “Please,” Declan murmured, and he wasn’t at all sure what he was begging for, but it was sated when the man took Declan’s face in both of his strong hands.

“I know you’re a good boy,” the man said, vowels melting with his accent. Some small, weak sound escaped Declan’s throat. “Now get on your knees and show me how good you can be.”

Declan sank. His knees hit the tile with a sharp burst of pain, and he gasped when he realized he would be feeling it in church tomorrow, the soft velvet kneeler pressing into his bruises in front of his brothers and God and probably his father’s ghost. He unfastened the man’s fly with shaking fingers, his mind humming _mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, forgive me Father for I have sinned._

The man’s cock was thick and heavy. Declan relaxed his gag reflex and took it all the way down, until his nose was pressed against coarse gray curls. He felt so full and stretched that he couldn’t help whining in the back of his throat. 

The man’s hands came back to his head, stroking over his hair. “Good boy,” he crooned. “Look at that pretty mouth. Your daddy teach you how to do this?”

Declan made a desperate noise around the cock in his throat. It was sick, even sicker than dressing like a tart and kneeling for men twice his age, but the man’s words made him flush even harder, his skin buzzing, his heart thrashing in his chest. 

He curled his tongue and hollowed his cheeks. Declan never attempted anything without applying himself, and he wanted to show the man how good at this he was. It kept him awake some nights, what a good cocksucker he’d become. The least he could get for it was a bit of praise. 

The man’s grip had changed since he grabbed Declan’s hair. He was being gentle now, stroking softly over Declan’s temples and cheekbones and the edge of his stretched mouth. “What a pretty little thing you are. Such a good boy for Daddy.”

Declan moaned helplessly. He fumbled with his jeans, stuffing a hand down his pants before he had them fully unzipped. The man didn’t stop him, just put his hand on the back of Declan’s head and began thrusting. Declan closed his eyes and relaxed his throat, letting the man fuck his mouth.

“Good boy,” the man grunted again. He was rubbing his fingers against Declan’s scalp, and that sensation bled into the cock sliding in and out of in his mouth until he was wound tight as a spring, jerking himself so hard his wrist ached. He was empty, a vessel, a pretty thing to be used and cherished and then thrown away. He only existed where he was being touched.

The man pulled his cock out of Declan’s mouth. Declan chased it with a sharp whine, leaning in to rub his face against the man’s crotch. He stopped Declan with a firm hand in his hair.

“Look at me, boy.” Declan tried, but his eyes were watering and he was so close to coming that he couldn’t focus his gaze. The man held Declan’s chin and tilted it up, holding him still. Helping Declan be good.

“Please,” Declan moaned. His mouth felt so empty, and he couldn’t make himself come without knowing he was being used, being _useful._

The man smiled. It was a cruel smile, and that was why Declan had come to him, but there was something softer in his eyes. “Please what, boy?”

Declan knew this was coming. He’d known it the moment his back hit the door. His eyes still flooded with tears as the words stuck in his throat.

_Please, Da—_

“Please, Daddy, let me suck your cock, I’m your good boy, I just want to come, please.”

The man’s cock twitched. Declan leaned over and licked up the drip of precome, letting the man’s cock slide straight into his open mouth. Spunk burst across his tongue and the back of his throat, and he fought over his gag reflex to swallow it all down, relishing the slick feeling in his mouth.

The man was still touching him gently, like he was something soft and precious. “That’s it, be a good boy and come for Daddy.” 

Declan cried out and came all over his hand. He leaned his forehead on the man’s leg and struggled to breathe.

There was movement above Declan’s head. The man handed him a paper towel and a fifty dollar bill, his fingers catching Declan’s cheek.

“For the cab. Pretty boy like you could get yourself in trouble.”

Declan sat up. His skin was clammy with sweat and he smelled as bad as he looked. “I’m not a whore,” he spat, tossing the fifty across the floor. He could still taste come in the back of his throat, and it made him feel like he was going to be sick.

The man laughed. “Course you’re not. Bet that shirt cost more than my truck.” He tucked himself back in his jeans, then walked over and stroked Declan’s hair. Declan couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the touch.

“Take care of yourself, all right?” He pulled the door open and left without waiting for a response. Declan put his head between his knees and started to sob.

**Author's Note:**

> This is shameless id fic, which is why Declan's a bit of a woobie. I apologize for the totally inappropriate title--I was listening to a bunch of southern rock when I wrote this. Poor little rich boy.


End file.
